Richard McDowell

The Life of an Artist

2011-09-03T16:55:00.000-07:00

INTO THE DARKNESS - A Graphic Novel by Richard McDowell

I've decided to create and share a page a weekfrom this crazy life of mine. Follow the story as I make my way along andthrough it all, the meandering back streets of Downtown Los Angeles. Ihope you hear the poetry and in this panel… like all things that have abeginning… I embark on my journey, but I’ll start by asking – “Where am I?”


On Any Given Day.

The morning had been very strange, but had already past. It had ended with a visit from my art dealer, my model and the Doctor. I was hoping to put the past behind me, and in the early afternoon I was headed for and on my way to the Arts District.

On Spring Street at 7th

Dear People,

Some where near the corner... I begin to believe I'm being followed...
but than again, do I really believe in anything?

Leaving The City

2011-09-02T22:49:00.000-07:00

And he passed like Peter Lorre in“Casablanca,” hair parted, hair separated, and that little black mustache like Jose Ferrer in Lawrence of Arabia. What a strange cafe, what a strange place,what a strange day. If only we kneweach other a little better. When thesound of voices could travel no further than an empty city block. And I walked a lot, and never really talkedto anyone.

The Conversation

2011-08-19T20:59:00.001-07:00

A glass of wine, a cigarette, and the sound of a piano played, a voice of an old radio on red walls. And a banana found its place, as I have done. There are potted plants, and glasses on an empty wooden table. Blue coffee coasters. And a chicken makes its way from poultry farms in Arkansas. It's been such a strange day. I don't look the way I used to, but maybe someday.

At 5 am

2011-08-03T14:49:00.000-07:00

I awoke from a dream as if I had been sleeping. A deep, deep sleep that is comforting by its nature, yet when awoken from, and you are in the middle of, remains disturbing and oddly aloof, with pieces of another world floating at the edge of your consciousness. As if a vestige had been left behind, and a part of you is trapped in a void of dreamy silence that you can never retrieve. You are now incomplete with memories that linger, and the only way back to them is to dream again.

Ladies of the Lake

2011-06-11T14:58:00.000-07:00

Just completed this and I'm working on its companion piece. This is a new direction for me and as many of you know - I've been focusing on contemporary Saints... although I just put the finishing touches on "Saint Joey Ramone" and have the "Saints of the Music Industry" to finish... I'm moving on.

Update - The Boat

2011-06-06T13:51:00.000-07:00

Hello...
A few new pics of the boat I'm building... and with good reason.

Installed at Autumn Lights LA

Photos by Rick Mendoza

2011-05-30T16:21:00.001-07:00

In a series of paintings...
a theme I explore sometimes...
I will continue to grapple with the notion of worship, religion and the interaction of men and women in our society.

If you know of anyone who might be interested... please forward, post or feel free to contact me.

Graffiti by Definition - or Necessary Information?

2011-05-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

On a typical day, I imagine I walk around Downtown Los Angeles as much as anyone. I consider myself an Observationalist. To the amazement of friends, I’ll often point out an odd assortment of things most people don’t see, or seem to miss.

But I am sure you’ve noticed your share of oddities and I more or less wanted to point out a peculiarity of the city, (a form of graffiti I found) then to suggest I see better than anyone else.

Graffiti (singular: graffito; the plural is used as a mass noun) is the name for images or lettering scratched, scrawled, painted or marked in any manner on property.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Graffiti

2009-07-16T12:20:00.000-07:00

--CURRENT WORK--

Good evening... about to update my blog and add a bunch of new stuff I'm working on!

The Boat

--PAINTINGS--

Saints

Featureless Portraits

"Relationships" series

"Artistic Prisoner" performance

"Potential" series

--WRITINGS--

Potential’s Surface
A Day In The City
Days of Reason
King Eddy Saloon
The Raspberry Tea Poem -1995
Wrong Direction - 2001
Dear Patron of the Arts - 2004
One Time In New York - 2005

--MISCELLANEOUS--

The New ATM
Commencement Speech
The Downtown Skyline
Fashion

A Boat

2009-07-07T14:54:00.000-07:00

The Saints

2009-07-07T14:50:00.000-07:00

The Saints of Fashion
30x60 Acrylic / Gold leaf on Canvas
SOLD

Saint Tiffany
30x24 Oil / Gold leaf on Canvas
SOLD

Saint Gucci
30x24 Oil / Gold leaf on Canvas
SOLD

Saint Paramount
24x30 Oil / Gold leaf on Canvas
SOLD

The New ATM

2009-03-10T18:17:00.001-07:00

Commencement Speech

2008-12-30T14:04:00.000-08:00

Buy now…

priced to sell…

or lease…

or rent…

550 sq. feet

only $ 195,000

or $ 1,700

or $ 600 per month

two months free

Amazing view of dumpster in alley.

A Day In The City

2008-10-27T11:33:00.000-07:00

I've nothing left for you, I'm no use flirting with, no feelings I can give. Please hold me close while waiting in the wings, and with eyes unclouded by the ash ambiguity we'll make love. In the limelight we'll dance and sway becoming one, lighting fire to conversations that all begin with us. The spark of your imagination, I am delirium floating like feathers in the wind. You'll search for me and cry on cue, and give me reason as the curtain falls to waltz across the stage and kiss you once again with words unspoken. Until the moment fades. And after that and when I'm dead, you can say you knew me when. When I was just a child.

The Downtown Skyline

2008-09-08T14:53:00.001-07:00

Life As A Poet has invited 12 artists who live and work in downtown Los Angeles to paint their view of the City’s business center. Witness their vision of the Downtown Skyline and view the apparent juncture of earth and sky.

Featureless Portraits

2008-06-02T21:13:00.000-07:00

In this series of paintings, I am looking to capture those aspects of humanity that make us an individual, and ultimately that we are all a small, but important part of mankind. This body of work, records some of those unique faces. Like images that we look back on as we study downtown’s rich history and ask ourselves, who are these people? So too, will future travelers, who will look back on these paintings. They will stop and they will think and wonder….

Gronk
16x20
$ 350.00

Monica
16x20
$ 500.00
SOLD

Give Me Back My Arm
60x46
$ 1,450.00
DONATED

ert Green 20x24
$250 sold

SOLD
Fumiko 20x24
$250

Just A Girl 24x48
$375

Decadence 18x20
$175

Siquerios 26x24
$280 sold

Ken 20x24
$375
SOLD

Days of Reason

2008-04-24T18:37:00.000-07:00

In those days, Silvia was born, and she marked the beginning and the end for the People of the Flame. For at her birth the first drops of rain fell and so began the Days of Reason, and there unhinging was likened unto the tightening of a screw.

Silvia, born in a bird’s nest, looked down upon the People of the Flame and said, "This to shall come to pass, all anguish will be swept away with an implement as simple as a broom.” But this cannot be true, for at her birth Silvia was struck by a bolt of lightening and never spoke a single word. But story becomes myth, myth becomes legend, and in these ways the signs were foretold, for these day were called the Reseeding of the Flames.

Silvia was born naked, and of the color blue her skin was cool to the touch. And at the age of two she was four feet tall and grew no more. But her breasts were full, from which the smallest dogs would suckle, and birds and leopards too.

But for the People of the Flame there was no celebration, for they were all consumed by the heat of the fire that burned within them. Flames, flames, flames would lick and lie with her in sleep and slumber. And while laughing at their success, they learned she felt no shame and cried themselves out. For these were failed attempts to steal her beauty. And in the end, strewn with the bodies of the dead, the Land of Fire was laid to waste. The People of the Flame would fade and flicker. And those few that did remain would find no rest until Silvia was whisked away for them in a bucket of ice, like a fine champagne, never to see them again.

King Eddy Saloon

2008-01-02T12:22:00.000-08:00

Art was 74 when he told me about the hooker.

“That whore cost me 2,000 dollars”, he said.

And than added, “Have a nice day.”

I crossed the street ahead of him. I was on my way to work, and Art was making his daily trip, at a slow military pace towards to the King Eddy Saloon. The King Eddy was a local dive bar on the corner of Fifth and Los Angeles. To most, the bar was a dead end, the final stop before leaving skid row or the last resting place before entering. For some it was all that was left at the end of the day, of another era. And for Art it was only 8 a.m.. Its location in a strange way made it the greatest place in world, a haven on the Nickel, as this stretch of road was sometimes called. Heaven's little hellhole, and for many paradise on earth.

At some point Art asked about, or I happened to mention, the place where I worked being at the corner of Hollywood and Vine, and this is where his call girl had come from. The conversation ended, and after that Art called me a snooty bastard, among other things, but the one I think he preferred the most was son “Come here, son” or “Do you need anything, son?, he'd say. I never bothered to find out if he had any kids himself, but I do know he was married. I had asked him that once, some time ago. I could tell by the way the corners of his mouth pinched over that these were fond memories, after which he'd fall silent for a while, stumbling along, lost to another time as we made our way along the darkened corridor.

“Jesus, Art, are you sure you can walk? You gonna make it alright?” I’d ask.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” he’d say. Dragging the words out very slowly he added, “You ever need anything, son, you let me know. You're a good neighbor. Not like these other assholes. You sure you don't need anything?”

“No I’m good. I'm workin' hard,” I always replied. Then Art would take me by the arm, and we'd get on down the hallway. He was drunk or sober enough to stand, but had a hard time keeping his feet under him. It seemed to me he knew exactly where he was, and where he was going, but wasn't quite so sure on how he was going to get there.

We'd reach the place where I'd turn off, and he’d stumble on, mumbling “stupid bastards” under his breath. I never asked to whom he was referring, but I assumed it was everyone he had spent a lifetime running into. I'd stand there at the corner long enough to make sure he'd get his key in the door. Then it would open and Art would disappear.

Relationships

2007-06-19T21:20:00.000-07:00

In this series of work I was attempting to explore the subtle interactions of men and women. I was concerned with the quiet moments that pass between couples.

Feelings and emotions that go unnoticed, and those are often the strongest indicator of that relationship, the strengths or weakness.

Untitled: 36x24 oil on canvas
$750
I Bring The Seed: 36x24 oil on canvas
$750

My Life With Women "A Day In The Circus:
36X24 oil on canvas
$750 sold

Artistic Prisoner

2007-05-18T20:58:00.000-07:00

The artist as a prisoner, conjures the trial, and the struggle to understand the creative process. In 2004, while on display as part of an art opening, Richard McDowell was chained to the ceiling of an old bank vault for three days.

During the process, he danced with many musings, and created a unique space filled with art and poetry.

Life as a Poet, moved by art.

2007-03-29T20:39:00.000-07:00

Potential #3, 22 x 12 in.
acrylic on canvasPotential Framed

Potential #1 30 X 36,
acrylic on canvas
Potential with a Friend,
6ft x54in. acrylic on canvas

Potential Iceberg, 48 x 36in.
acrylic on canvas

Potenial #2, 60 x 24in.
acrylic on canvas

Monument to Potential,
18 x 14in. acrylic on canvas

POTENTIAL: To lie dormant until needed for use.

When thinking about this word, and it many applications. I began to wonder - if potential was an object, what would it look like?

I saw potential as a ball or sphere, wrapped or bound by cords, always on the verge of letting go, and releasing it's energy. Much like our own dreams, ideas are attached to us by some invisable cord, always waiting for the right tool to come along and unlock that which is possible.

When looking around the city, I've seen many examples of this definition.

thought + action = release of your potential

Potential’s Surface

2007-03-16T15:55:00.000-07:00

Potential’s Surface

Sunlight,
bright light
fades
casting shadows long.
Long ago, like my memories.
A castle,
Spain,
a road trip home.
I found none.
As they crest the potential’s surface
they look at me
distant like a light source.
Left,
right,
right above me.
One has to consider things,
taking things into consideration.

Why would a box climb a mountain?
Yet I place it there.
Alone, its solitude
on this last scrap of paper.

Fashion

2007-02-04T17:02:00.000-08:00

Poetry: THE RASPBERRY TEA POEM -1995

2007-01-07T17:23:00.000-08:00

THE RASPBERRY TEA POEM, by Richard McDowell

Three snakes jumped into the lake. The waters coined a phrase. On the lips of children ran ripples on the wind. So that’s what this is all about. This is about that. This and that. That and this. This is about the first time I don’t actually remember. Near the center I decided to cross the street. The store was on the corner. Take a ship and sail around the sea of sand. Water is much better wet. Oh please, these are just ideas that I have. ‘Cause, that’s what his name is. Sitting in the shadow of the sun. The tunnel has a hood with a cover.

And I go on and on. Try not to sing a song, try not to sing along. Try not to think about nothin’. Like a piece of plywood. Which reminds me of glue. Somethin’s gotta hold us together.

You say that you love me. You say that you need me. You said that you’d meet me at half past three. I waited an hour until I felt lonely. I ordered a cup of raspberry tea.

Jump down the street up the hill. Trash. Would you like some peas? The color of Ambiguity. I have always found lemons. The bear was made of fur. It is the tree. The light was dark. The dark was dark. Darker then it was light. Shine. Pine. Mine. Line. Fine. Birds, bats, cats, rats. Chairs, pairs, hairs. Rabbits freed from snares. Sneers. Snored. Spared. Happy is rare. Scarce. Sparse. Scant. Ant. Plant, a factory chant. Mill the wool. Sheep’s clothing was on the lamb. Elvis was an apple cart.

And I go on and on. Try not to sing a song, try not to sing along. Try not to think about nothin’. Like a piece of plywood. Which reminds me of glue. Somethin’s gotta hold us together.

You say that you love me. You say that you need me. You said that you’d meet me at half past three. I waited an hour until I felt lonely. I ordered a cup of raspberry tea.

We lived in a cardboard box that was at the exit left me on a bridge. The moon was in your left eye so I looked inside and saw the astronaut Gene Shaw wow what a guy. Butter is not a cow and I don’t think cows like chocolate. The day I smiled a warm snow fell in the cold spring. Picture the flowers. Cultivate the painting. I love the garden in your mind. Straw the barn full was. Rain is good for banana trees, but not trees that don’t need rain. Please rain on the day I go.

And I go on and on. Try not to sing a song, try not to sing along. Try not to think about nothin’. Like a piece of plywood. Which reminds me of glue. Somethin’s gotta hold us together.

You say that you love me. You say that you need me. You said that you’d meet me at half past three. I waited an hour until I felt lonely. I ordered a cup of raspberry tea.

Three snakes jumped into the lake and I go on and on.

Poetry: Wrong Direction - 2001

2007-01-06T17:28:00.000-08:00

WRONG DIRECTION

My poetry is moving in the wrong direction,

and even though it means being less than the myth

I'm not writing as well anymore.

I'm ruined, a landscape crumbling

left defenseless

in a dismal space

by you wise ones

you stupid bums

every scar you give

gives me reason to dig through the rubble

and find what hatred creates is gentle and great

to the rat at the center of the universe.

In the middle of an empty rooftop parking lot

I smoke a cigarette, as light from the helicopter

overhead descends. Below in the crevasse

a black man cashed in on the value

of liquor in a brown paper bag and chatted it up

with a corner trash can.

Poetry : Dear Patron of the Arts - 2004

2007-01-02T17:40:00.000-08:00

Dear Patron of the Arts

My poetry tonight is not being brought to you by Verizon. No donations from cooperate sponsors has occurred, nor has my poetry been used in correlation with any ad campaign for Nike, Puma, Vidal Sassoon, Mc Donald's or Coke Cola, but this should not affect public opinion of these products and services. Nothing was received from the N.E.A., or accepted. The Carnegie Foundation is not involved, and no grant was awarded from any non-profit organizations or publications that make such claims as to the legitimacy of my work in comparison to their poetry contests and/or prizes awarded.

Additionally, no mutual funds or brokerage firms were consulted or called upon to raise assets. No private or public offerings were formulated on the NYSE, nor were donations set aside by anonymous benefactors. No money was funneled, collected into bogus and/or fraudulent accounts established in advance, and without your knowledge. Secretly structured by organized poets like me, determined to separate you from your earnings by suggesting that my poetry is sound, its value is not over inflated and is worth listening to.

Later, I'll doctor the records, but only after it is concluded that my poetry resonated with miss leading information and under the investigation, included words suggesting fraudulent active, which I may not agree with, but believe was missed by an outside consulting firm. In actuality, my work contained no poetry whatsoever. This gross error was an over-site. The fact that it was appreciated by professionals, but they did not read the blank pages, which were simply overlooked.

Finally in a court of law, I'll claim and inform you that I was ignorant of such transactions, I had no knowledge of this activity and cannot recall if I actually had been writing poetry at all. You may conclude from this that I am also stupid for suggesting that you are as dumb as me, but I will agree with you that those responsible should pay, and be held accountable for their actions.

Sincerely,

Richard McDowell

Poetry: One Time In New York - 2005

2007-01-01T17:35:00.000-08:00

One Time In New York

“Stand clear of the closing doors please,” and off we went, leaving Ben and Jenny behind in the heart of it all, the financial core, where seldom, if ever, money is found, and oddly enough it is sometimes king, but more often whore. Where people pass and hardly glance, but always rubbing elbows with “who knows who” and we headed into Bleeker Street station. And on we went, and on and on. And crossing Astor Place a man coughed, and the rest of the world feel silent as we waited for the doors to close, and they did and we were off again. And I remember I sat in that small cafe and said, “What's holding this place together?” Two hundred coats of paint, the last of which turned an old east village meat market into a trendy French Cafe. And he passed like Peter Lorre in “Casablanca,” hair parted, hair separated, and that little black mustache like Howard Hawks in “Lawrence of Arabia.” What a strange cafe, what a strange place, what a strange day. If only the city and I knew each other a little better. If only the sound of voices could travel no further than an empty city block. And I walked a lot, and never really talked to anyone.